Paradise Point

By Cynthia A. King

Never married Aimee Dunsmore hides her identity as a successful Gothic Romance ghostwriter. Aimee got her start as a ghostwriter for a reclusive movie star, an assignment which took her from the Hamptons to Hollywood. Now back home, she's content to remain in obscurity and write her novels.

 She meets Mitch and decides to take a chanc

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franklin Publishers
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893240702

Book preview

To Pierre, who, much like this book, is a complete work of fiction.

Paradise Point

A Mid-Life Romance

A Novel

Cynthia A. King

Part One

Chapter 1

Aimee took her eye—and hand—off her grocery cart for just a second. She had to wedge her shoulder to hold open the broken trunk latch of her old Honda while she loaded her items, but she needed two hands to lift the case of bottled water. She turned away for just a second, but it was long enough for her groceries to roll away, only stopping by coming to rest against the most exotic car in the lot.

Oh! she said as she put her hand over her mouth. Dang, I always did have champagne taste, Aimee thought, and ran over and grabbed her cart. She saw what might definitely be considered damage, perhaps only a paint chip or a whisper of a ding, but because the car was a sleek, black Tesla, it drew plenty of attention. People tended to give it a good once over, prompting the comment, Wait a minute, is that a dent?

Aimeelookedatthemakeandsworeunderherbreath.AfuckingTesla? What kind of asshole drives a Tesla to the grocery store?

She retrieved her groceries, loaded her car, and put the cart away. Aimee dug through her handbag, looked for a black marker, and waited for the owner of the Tesla, her arms crossed over her chest and a frown on her face.

Excuse me? Do you need some help? a male voice said from behind. She turned as a man in khaki shorts and a well-worn navy blue tee shirt approached. He wore Birkenstocks. He looked nice. Pleasant. Good-looking, even. He had hairy legs. The blue tee matched his blue eyes. He was a few inches taller than her and in no hurry as he strolled over.

Sorry.I’mwaitingforthedouchebagthatdrivesthiscar.Shepointed at the Tesla.

Why?

My cart got away from me and sorta left a mark.

Where? He looked at the spot. Oh no. And you didn’t take off?

No, but I thought about it. I could fix it in like two seconds, Aimee said and held up the marker, but karma and all. I still would like to know what asshole drives a Tesla to the grocery store.

Here, he said and stuck out his hand. Let me see that marker. No.

Before Aimee had a chance to blink, he grabbed it out of her hand.

Hey! That’s mine! she said and tried to grab it back. He held it over her head; his height gave him the advantage, and he put it out of her reach. Aimee lunged for it again, this time hooking his arm.

Give me back my pen! she said, wrestling with his arm, trying to bring his hand closer. He didn’t yield and watched her struggle, but the determined look on her face said she wasn’t playing. He only meant to tease her, but she didn’t seem to get the joke, so Mitch relaxed his arm, allowing Aimee to snatch the Sharpie away from him.

What is wrong with you? Aimee said sharply and put the marker in her pocket.

What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you, fighting with some stranger over a two dollar pen? I thought you were going to slug me if I didn’t let go.

I was if you didn’t give it back.

I can’t imagine what you’d do over a Bic pen.

Nothing, but if it was my Mont Blanc, I would’ve slit your throat. Aimee smiled at the visual.

You’re crazy, he told her. Let’s start over. How would that fix this? He gestured at the dent.

Aimee gave him a look, took the marker out of her pocket, and pointed to the tiny ding in the finish. See, it’s small enough that the light bounces off and calls your eye to it. The black ink would darken it enough to absorb the light, and your eye won’t notice it.

Hegrabbedthemarkerandtestedhertheorybeforeshecouldgrabitback.

He looked at it and said, You’re right, and passed back the marker. Quick, before the guy comes.

How do you know it’s a guy?

Because a woman would drive her Range Rover. She pointed at the car. This probably belongs to some short guy with a little dick.

Defineshort.

Aimee looked at him and narrowed her eyes. "You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re the driver. The douche bag. The asshole. The pencil dick midget. You know, you could have stopped me at any point."

He smiled, a nice wide smile with white teeth. Why? You were just getting started. My name is Mitchell Raleigh. I am the driver, but it’s not my car. It got repo’d, and I’m driving it to Albany. It’s nice to meet you, Ms., Mrs.?

I’m not sure I want to tell my real name.

Then give me a fake one.

It’s Aimee. Aimee Dunsmore. She paused. Maybe. It’s maybe Aimee Dunsmore.

Nice to meet you, Ms. Maybe Aimee Dunsmore. I think I saw a coffee shop across the street. Let’s walk over, have a cup of coffee, and take care of this, but you’rebuying.Thatsoundslikeyourrealname,hesaidastheywaitedforthe lighttochange.Unlessyouhaveapreparedalias,youwhipoutwheneveryou get in trouble.

It is, and I do, but I forget to use it. Do you get in trouble often?

Usually, I cause trouble. One stupid, innocent, everyday thing happens, and trouble follows. Like this. Aimee pointed back to the Tesla. People must lose control of their carts every day; this is a grocery store, for crying out loud. But they catch theirs, or they roll harmlessly away. I, on the other hand, managed to nick the most expensive car in the place. It will probably cost more money to fix than I make in a month.

Yet you stayed to make it right.

Not really. I stayed to avoid karmic retribution. Maybe I did this and took off in a past life, so I have to stay now to avoid paying for it in the future. I don’t know. I felt bad about leaving, that’s all.

Mitch held his arm out, his palm facing her, waiting for the traffic to clear before she stepped off the curb. Aimee wondered whether it was because he was a gentleman and cared for her safety or he thought she was a lunatic and would run into traffic. A gesture of a man with children, Aimee decided. He dropped his arm when it was safe to cross, and they walked over to the coffee shop.

Aimee gave him an appraising look. Initially, she thought he looked decent enough, but now she’d say he was handsome. He was about six feet tall, with shaggy brown hair and a few more grays than he was happy about. He had dark blue eyes trimmed with dark lashes and a friendly smile. Mitchell Raleigh had good teeth. What convinced her to say yes was his nose. He had a strong bridge, and the tip still held its shape.

He looked like some older hipster dude, and he told her she had to buy him coffee.HecalledherMs.Dunsmore.Aimeefiguredhemustnotbehittingon her,orelsehe’doffertobuythecoffee.MitchellRaleighwasjustsomeguy paid to repo cars.

They crossed the parking lot to The Cafe Nirvana; the logo painted on the door was a coffee cup with steam in the shape of a lotus blossom. Taped underneath was a handmade sign that said ‘Restrooms for Customers Only.’ He held open the door for her and asked, Is there a Buddhist temple nearby?

Aimee looked at him, trying to see if she overlooked the fact he was a weirdo. Why would you ask that?

First, your talk of karma. Second, the name Nirvana.

She relaxed. His question didn’t seem too odd in light of the context. I don’t think so. My sense of karma is more like what goes around, comes around, and I think the name means it’s really good coffee. Heavenly, even.

It was nice and cool inside, not too busy, so they quickly found a table. He sat down and gave Aimee his order. It wasn’t for some complicated drink, just black coffee. She went over to the counter and ordered the same but with extra cream and sugar. She came back empty-handed.

Where’s my coffee? he asked.

Don’t worry about it. He’ll bring it over when it’s ready, Aimee said as she took the seat across from him.

Mitchell looked at Aimee and smiled. It was his turn to study her face. She looked back at him, her gaze steady and clear. She had brown eyes, the shape and color of almonds with gold speckles. They seemed to light up from the inside. Her full upper lip looked right at home when she smirked. Her hair was dark brown and hung like a curtain on both sides of her face. He liked her broad smile and the slight cleft in her chin. She was tan and looked healthy, not like those women who baked themselves basted in baby oil in their youth only to pay for it now with wrinkles and liver spots.

Aimee Dunsmore looked like she was tan from being outside doing something like gardening. Her skin was remarkably unmarked, with no freckles or an abundance of moles. No unsightly skin tags or age spots. It was smooth and rippled as the muscles underneath expanded and contracted, not a bit droopy or crepey. Mitchell realized she was watching him look at her and reached for something to say.

So, Aimee, do you want to keep this off the books or through insurance? She opened her mouth to reply, but Steve came over with their drinks and a plate of small cookies. He thanked Steve and looked at his steaming drink. He looked at her steam as well.

Might be a while ‘til they’re cool enough to drink.

Well, here, she said and took a wallet out of her small bag. It hung across her body, the strap cut between her breasts. He blinked to break his gaze so he wouldn’t stare at the exact place where he inexplicably wanted to rest his face.

Let’s take care of this now and get it over with, she sighed and pushed the papers over. He looked at her and pushed them back.

Listen, I don’t need all that. Just give me your name and number. If it goes that far, I’ll let you know. Aimee took the marker and wrote down her number on a napkin. He pulled the napkin and marker back. Both disappeared under the table.

Hey! That’s my marker! Give it back! Aimee said.

No. I might need it later to touch up the paint. Mitch sipped his coffee. It’s cool enough to drink now.

Thanks. She took a sip. So that’s what you do? Repo cars?

Among other things.

Aimee laughed at him. He tried to act cool and mysterious but failed.

What’s that supposed to mean? Are you an international spy with Interpol trying to bust a luxury car ring? You’re a car thief dealing in high-end cars? Run a chop shop? Part of a drug cartel? You’re some kind of secret agent with the Feds? she said with a smirk. Mitchell smiled.

This aging hipster look is just one of your many disguises? Aimee said.

He frowned. What do you mean, ‘aging hipster’?

Aimee smiled at her direct hit to his ego. Nothing. I kind of like it, with your shaggy hair and sunglass tan lines. You must spend a lot of time on the water. Do you repossess boats, too?

Okay, that’s enough of that, Mitch said. It is a repo. I didn’t repo it; I’m just moving it from A to B. As far as any mark on the finish, it has been repossessed. One could argue the prior owner did it.

That’s true.Youwon’tneedmySharpie,shesaidandstuckoutherhand.

Mitchell pulled it out of his pocket and gave it back to her.

Here. Keep it. I have your number now. I don’t need it anymore.

It was her turn to frown. Aimee took a sip of coffee. A fat lot of good that will do you. You don’t live here, so it seems rather pointless.

I’lljustkeepitinmylittleblackbookunder‘prospects’shouldIevermove here.

Aimee couldn’t help poking him further. You really are an aging hipster emphasisonaging.Mostpeopleunderfiftyhaveneverevenheardofalittle black book.

Mitchelllaughed.You’renospringchickenyourself,Aimeeifyouknow what one is, too.

Thank God, she said. I was worried you were going to hit on me. Any guy who calls a woman old obviously can’t expect to score with her.

I figured you’d be a good fit for my grandfather. Is he local?

Unfortunately, no. He’s only allowed out of the home for day trips. Oh well. She finished her coffee. My loss.

Not really. He has dementia and would forget about you the minute you left the room. He drank the rest of his cup. I, on the other hand, could never forget you. Ready? They cleared the table, and he threw out the trash. Let’s go.

They walked back to their cars.

Do you have any plans for later today? Mitchell asked her. Feel like taking a ride to Albany?

Sohewashittingonher."No,thankyou.IhaveadeadlineIhavetomeet.

Nice to meet you, Mitchell Raleigh, but I do need to go now."

The pleasure was all mine, maybe Aimee Dunsmore, he said as he walked her to her car. Until we meet again.

Yeah. Sure. But I really have to go.

Mitch had sworn off women since the divorce, and this sudden urge to make a play for her came out of nowhere. He felt a connection he couldn’t explain like they had known each other in an earlier life, but he missed his opportunity, and fate would not let him miss it this time. The universe was pushing him toward her for some unknown reason. She was slowly pulling him into her or- bit. Karma indeed.

Goodbye, he said as he walked back to his car. He got in and rolled the window down, prepared to drive by and give her a wave. He waved, she waved back, and through the open window, he heard a male voice yell, Aimee! Hold up! I want to talk to you!

Mitchell had pulled past her. He had to check the rearview mirror to look at the guy who called Aimee, but he was too far away to get a good look. Now, his curiosity was piqued on two fronts; by Aimee and her lack of a ring and the guy who could be his competition.

Chapter 2

O h, hi, Billy. What’s up? Who’s your new boyfriend?

Aimee looked at him and shook her head. She looked at that familiar face, as familiar as her own. A classmate since second grade, his last name was Dolan, sentencing her to a lifetime of him by her side when called alphabetically. He sat next to her in most classes and stood next to her in assemblies.

Billy reminded her of a hummingbird with ADHD. He was always swinging his head to move the hair out of his eyes, but over the years, there was less and less to move. He had good teeth thanks to thousands of dollars of orthodontics, and his skin has cleared up since high school. He grew into his looks and later grew out of them. He was divorced and moved back to live with his parents.

He’s not my boyfriend. Why, what’s it to you?

Nothing. I wondered where I could buy a Tesla. He sounded envious. I couldn’t tell you. I only talked to him because my cart dinged his car. Was he pissed?

Not really. He’s just passing through. Besides, shouldn’t you move out of your parents’ house before you buy a ride like that? Aimee laughed.

Yeah, that child support’s a killer. Billy smiled and flicked what was left of his hair out of his eyes. I used to be so cool. Now I drive a minivan.

Oh well. Good to see you, Billy. I’ve got a deadline I need to meet, so I’ve got to go. See you around, Aimee said as she got in her car and headed for home. Shearrived,broughtthegroceriesinandputthemaway.Aimeegaveneither Mitchell nor Billy a passing thought and got ready to work. Aimee went into the small den she used as an office. It used to be her Dad’s, but he let her have it when he retired. She powered up her computer and went to work.Aimee did have a deadline.

Aimee got up the following day, and her mind wandered to the past as she sat in the same kitchen chair she sat in since she was a little kid. The only difference was she drank coffee now instead of chocolate milk. She got lost in her thoughts of the past, how this place used to be a home, a hub of noise and activity, only now so quiet you could hear the clock tick and the furnace kick on. Even though she lived through so much and enjoyed all kinds of adventures, to think it started all those years ago with her first job after college at Paradise Point.

Chapter 3

Aimee’s mom died entirely by surprise due to a ruptured blood vessel in her brain. Her dad came home from work and found her collapsed on the kitchen floor. It threw the whole family into shock. Nobody ever thought about Marie Dunsmore not being there.

Aimee was the youngest of four. Her brother Eddie was the oldest, then Carrie, her brother Sam, and Aimee, the littlest sister. She was a junior in college when her mom died. Her brother graduated the year before; he was back at home looking at career options. Sam stayed there to keep their dad company while he searched. Sam found a job that required him to travel, but he was in and out, so their dad wasn’t home alone too often. Aimee came home after she graduated, which allowed Sam to accept a promotion and relocate to Washington, DC.

Aimee didn’t mind returning home; she needed to do some career evaluat- ing of her own. Her degree in creative writing qualified her for nothing. She thought about getting her MFA, but that would only qualify her for a better class of nothing.

Aimee considered moving to NYC, but the publishing world was getting tighter and tighter; the age of digital media changed the landscape of the printedword,andshecouldn’tquitemakeherselfsignonforsomuchwith so little return.

She freelanced articles and substitute taught, leaning towards getting her teaching certificate. Aimee didn’t want to teach, though; she didn’t like the kids. She thought the kids were rude and disrespectful. They all wanted to be rappers, anyway.

Aimee’s dad started dating; he met a woman named Sally through a friend. She was the exact opposite of her mother. Where her mother was smart and quiet, Sally was loud and vivacious. A tall, bleached blonde with an outrageous manicure who watched reality shows like ‘The Bachelor’ or ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ Marie Dunsmore never watched TV. Sally owned her own hair salon and did very well.

They were both sides of the same coin: a woman who would tend to Joe’s needs, and he’d love her and care for her, and the woman who took a chanceon him many years ago and gave him such a wonderful home and family.He’d love her forever, but Marie Dunsmore was in his past. Sally fit seamlessly into their lives.

The children were adults now, so changes could be made absent the guiltor betrayal that sometimes occurs when a person has moved on. There was no need for the support his kids had gone out of their way to provide, but Aimee had nowhere else to go, so she stayed. She debated her options when her old college roommate called with an offer that would set her down the career path she was on today.

◆◆◆

Her roommate’s father was a lawyer in the entertainment industry and needed a ghostwriter. A much-loved movie star who had become a recluse the past twenty-five years was coming out of retirement, starring as the matriarch of this multigenerational family saga. Its release date is set to coincide with Dolores Reardon’s ninetieth birthday. Some P.R. Hack thought some presence in print would maximize her return on all fronts. It morphed into a memoir.

She requested a young girl who would function as her ghostwriter or a transcriptionist to take every memory Dolores could recall and stitch it all together in part tell-all part farewell. Her involvement was to remain anonymous.

My dad asked me if I knew of anyone, and I thought of you, Carson said.

Now that’s a name that belongs up in lights, Carson Withers, Aimee thought. I’m still unknown. The only other person who knows who I exist is the mail- man, but he thinks he thinks my name is ‘Occupant.’

Find a lawyer, Carson told her. My dad’s FedExing you a contract. They need a quick turnaround time. They want you to stay at her compound for the summer and turn whatever she shares into a book by September. She’s got this enormous place in the Hamptons. I think it’s called ‘Paradise Place’ or something like that. There are worse places to stay.

◆◆◆

Before Aimee knew it, she was living in Dolores Reardon’s pool house. It was set up with the latest technology, a desktop computer and a dot matrix printer to help her with a quick turnaround time.

The first time she met Ms. Reardon, she was scared. Aimee wasn’t sure if she was what the actress wanted.

Sure, she was young, unknown, and unpublished, but what if their personalities clash? Aimee figured she was a star years before she was born; the movie star was probably used to fixers and sycophants. Aimee decided just to shut up and let her reminisce, record it, and type it up for review the next day. She figured she’d know the best approach after their first meeting. Aimee was to meet her at three p.m. in the ‘salon.’

Aimee thought she was already in over her head because she wasn’t sure what was meant precisely by ‘salon.’ The housekeeper, Rita, came promptly at 2:55 to usher her into the main house. They entered through a side door to access thelivingquarters.Aimeewasshownintoasmallsittingroom,smallbeing arelativetermbecausethehousewashuge.Aimeeplacedherrecorderanda small notebook on the table next to the oversized chair she sank into and waited for Ms. Reardon.

She appeared precisely at three p.m. She was casually dressed for a movie star, with silky pants and a flowing blouse. A brightly colored scarf was draped over her shoulders. What did I expect? Her to lounge around in a ball gown? Aimee thought. She was taller than Aimee expected. Even if she walked slowly, it was sure-footed. Her face was the same one she was born with, showing the years; her skin wrinkled and sagged, but her eyes were clear, and the distinctive green color she was known for was as bright as ever. Aimee stood up to introduce herself. Dolores had a short, sharp, blonde bob. Her hair moved with her head.

Hello, Ms. Reardon. I’m Aimee Dunsmore, the writer the book company hired to help you gather your thoughts together for your book.

Aimee. How lovely. She reached out and took Aimee’s hand with both of hers. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Dolores Reardon, but you can call me Dodo. Take a seat, and let’s chat.

AHollywoodlegendwhogoesbyDodo?Thisassignmentislookingbetterand better, Aimee thought.

"Nice to meet you, Dodo. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you think your book should say to the average reader?